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As the late afternoon sun casts elongated shadows through the tall, arched windows, Ochako's gaze remains fixed on the distant end of the hallway. Her posture, a blend of defiance and vulnerability, hints at the storm raging within.
Blooming bruises adorn the knuckles of her clenched fists and the new UA uniform bears the rebellious brushstrokes of chaos—a splatter of crimson across the crisp white fabric. Her mom won't be too happy about that.
The war had finished more than a year ago, yet she still feels like she's fighting for her life. Trying to prove to everyone that she's worth a damn. With Himiko dead and barely even properly buried, her parents more busy than ever due to the reconstruction of the city, and her best friend’s rejection, she's had the worst months of her life.
She holds in the urge to cry all over again. Spreading ashes of what could have been. An empty apartment. An empty room. She refuses to think. That’s why she gets into fights sometimes and bursts into tears in the middle of the night. Or so she reckons.
He pauses when he sees her, clearly surprised. Ochako was hoping he wasn’t on infirmary duty today but of course he was. Everyone is supposed to do social work, fundamentals of medicine, and fight de-escalation courses as part of the new UA Hero course. Izuku was in the infirmary a lot. Now more for tending to others rather than him being tended to. She knew losing One for All was a huge blow for him, but he didn't really speak about it. She also knew it was immature to avoid him but she was only planning on ignoring him for a while. It obviously doesn’t help that they’re in the same class and they have the same friends and they hang out in the same places.
“Hey,” Izuku says quietly.
“Hey,” Ochako answers. He leaves a space for her to walk into the small and unembellished room. She does.
“What happened?” he asks hesitantly, she can tell he’s not sure if he’s allowed to ask. He looks at her hands, the blood splatters, the cut on her face.
“What did they say for you to get into a fight like this?”
“They were being rude,” she just mumbles and sits diligently on the gurney.
“To you?”
“Among other people.”
Ochako gets a sense that Izuku realises it was about him but says nothing. Sometimes she gets riled up or upset or annoyed by certain things that she can’t really explain. She’s still mourning Himiko, and she feels like the only person in the world who is. She’s used to bottling up her feelings until… they explode one day triggered by one thing or the other. This time it was a group of first years talking about them. Their class. Their feats during the war. They called Izuku a fake hero, a one-trick pony, a spineless winner. They called him useless. That’s when she threw the first punch. Ochako did pretty good in fist fights, even if people didn't expect that from her.
Truth is, they called a lot of the heroes many things these days. For things to change it takes a lot of time and a lot of effort. Bigotry, disdain, hatred. It doesn’t just go away all in one day. A group of 16 year olds couldn’t change the world, they could only try. It still hurts to have it confirmed.
He seems unsatisfied with her answer and she decides to elaborate, “People think they can comment on everyone’s lives because we fought in the war and we were on TV. I just got annoyed by listening to people talk about us as if they know us.” He walks closer to her and grabs her chin with his gloved fingers to inspect the wound on her forehead a bit closer. Ochako holds her breath at the sudden contact. It feels like they haven’t touched in forever, even through the plastic material. He takes her hands in his and inspects them.
“Maybe I’ve also had a pretty shit week,” she adds. She sees how his mouth smiles a little at that.
Izuku fetches the things he needs and Ochako tries not to hesitate as he comes closer with the disinfectant which prompts him to say: “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
She's not sure if she wants to laugh or cry.
Izuku opens the bottle and grabs a small piece of gauze, applying the liquid before cleaning around the slash.
“I’m not worried about that,” Ochako says simply. The worst part is that she would let him hurt her. She would be okay with it if it’s him. As long as it’s him.
He slowly presses the gauze to the wound. It only stings a little. She doesn’t wince. Izuku gently dabs her skin, on her nose, on her eyebrow, on her knuckles. He’s being so careful. Careful not to meet her eyes. “Then what are you worried about?” he goes on.
Ochako’s gaze was fixed on the wall opposite her. The room was enveloped in a gentle hush but outside, muffled echoes of students' laughter and chatter seeped through the closed windows.
Her eyes trace the paintings that adorn the wall, all gifts and tokens to Recovery Girl. Bright colours and heartfelt messy writing adorned the many papers but between them she sees one with a little girl, her eyes big and her smile even bigger, standing alongside a green hero with a yellow cape. He also has a huge smile on his face. Does it bring him pain or does it bring him joy to see it there? She wants to ask.
“Being too close to you,” she says quietly. Ochako tries not to say things like that to him. She tries not to show that she still likes him, but it’s really really hard. She knows now the idea that their friendship is the same has vanished. She notices the way they both freeze when they brush against each other or when one of their eyes lingers a little too long. Everyone in class knows something happened between them and just gives them long stares when they don’t sit next to each other at lunch anymore but as far as they can manage while still being at the same table.
“I’ll keep my distance,” Izuku says, a hint of sadness in his voice she can’t quite place.
“I don’t want you to keep your distance,” she says, her voice with a hint of a plea.
“Uraraka…” Izuku says her name almost as a sigh. He doesn't know how to act around her anymore and it hurts her soul to have it confirmed. She thinks of his words, “I could never lose you”. Weren't they lost now? They have this unspoken tension hanging in the air all the time they're together now that feels stifling. A line has been drawn in the name of their friendship or in the name of his honour, she’s not quite sure. But she’s itching to cross that line. She's desperate to erase it altogether, to prove she's worth crossing it for. Desirable enough. Is she not? Is that what it was?
“Am I that unappealing to you that-”
“No,” he says loudly. “You know that’s not it. Would you feel better if I told you that? The problem is that you are too appealing, you’re too pretty and you’re too nice. You’re too much for me and I’m nothing.”
“Deku-” she begins.
He cuts her off before she can go on. “No, I mean it. I wish I could be with you without hating myself and without feeling inadequate but I can’t.”
Ochako has always been a little insecure. About her body, bigger than the other girls, her quirk, less flashy and strong than the other boys, her clothes, older and more worn than the other kids. But Izuku’s is a different type of insecurity. His runs so deep in his bones it aches.
“What does that even mean? Why can’t you just reject me like a normal person and say that you don’t want to be with me? Instead, you come up with all these excuses about how you’re not good enough and you don’t want to lose me. You’re good enough for me!” she almost wants to scream the last part but it comes out in a whisper instead. She didn’t really expect this to happen today but her feelings have been brewing and festering inside her. The truth always finds a way to come out.
“I don’t want someone better and I don’t want someone else. If you’re going to reject me, say to my face that you don’t want to be with me. Please. Please just say it so I can move on,” she says, her voice getting thick with emotion, tears pricking her eyes. Ochako knows she’s not being fair. But she also knows if this goes on she’ll just keep on loving him forever, she needs something else to be able to stop loving him this fiercely. It needs to break. Maybe then her heart will understand.
“All this doesn’t work for me because it gives me hope. And I thrive on that. I feed on it. Tell me that you don’t want me. Tell me that you don’t like me. Tell me you hate-”
He kisses her. Hard. First, it’s just their lips pressed together. But she opens her mouth and he responds immediately. Their teeth clash together. It’s rough and rushed. Blood on her lips, the smell of disinfectant in the air.
His hands are in her hair and she opens her legs so that his body could be positioned between them and she wants to moan at the sensation, at the way he feels so hungry. So desperate. Like he’s drowning and her lips are his salvation.
“I don’t want you,” he says between small kisses, his lips on her throat, his hands on her thighs. She’s wearing tights and he’s wearing gloves but she can feel the warmth of his hands on her skin.
“I don’t like you,” he basically whispers into her mouth. It makes her swallow hard. Her lips feel more sensitive than they've ever been. She lifts her body slightly from the gurney to press another soft kiss to his lips. They’re parted. Now it feels tender and slow. The opposite of two seconds ago.
His gloved hands are holding her face when he says, “but I could never hate you.” Their foreheads are pressed together. It's too much. Being so close. Being so riled up. His voice saying one thing, his lips another. She puts her hands on his chest, careful not to touch him with all five fingers. Her head drops against his shoulder. She feels like a defeated soldier in an unknown battle.
“I- I’m sorry,” he says.” I shouldn’t have done that. You deserve better than what I have to give Uraraka. I want you to understand that.”
Is it all self-loathing? Is it humility? Is it modesty?
“And yet I want you so bad it hurts,” Izuku confesses, the words heavy in his mouth.
She lifts her head, praying her eyes don’t betray how hopeful she feels. “I’m already yours,” Ochako murmurs in a pained voice. “Why can’t you let me in.”
He stares at her but says nothing. He puts distance between them. Back to the beginning. Back to square one.
The silence stretches between them and Izuku goes back to search the medicine cabinet as if he’ll find the answer in there. He makes his way back and places a bandage gently atop her brow. An ice pack follows, tenderly resting against her nose, his touch guiding her hand to hold it in place. She wonders if he’s trying to tend more than her wounds.
Her eyes, fixed on him, feel like a plea, an unspoken request for understanding. It's as if, in that moment, his resistance starts to crumble. Leaning against the other wall, he meets her gaze once more.
“I’m scared of you seeing every part of me. I know you’re going to regret being with me,” he admits, his fingers removing the gloves finger by finger, revealing the mess of scars on his hands. The war has left them an unintelligible combination of marks and lines and rough patches. Ochako wants nothing more than to reach out and touch them under her fingertips.
“Then don’t make me regret it,” she answers. As if it was really just so simple.
Izuku shakes his head with a forlorn smile, “You will anyway.”
Ochako also shakes her head and moves closer to him. Stares at the mess of freckles and the blur of green hair. Then presses her lips gingerly to his cheek. How do you convince someone that you really love them?
“Nothing about you has changed for me. I hope you know that,” Ochako declares. “Having a quirk and having no quirk doesn’t make a difference to me, you’re still the same Deku I’ve always known and I've always loved that Deku.” She gives him a smile, and it’s honest, and it’s genuine.
Izuku is flustered, as if they hadn’t made out just minutes ago. As if he didn’t know she was in love with him already. She can tell that he’s repressing a lot but doesn’t know how to let go. Honestly, she doesn’t really know how to either.
His tongue moves in his mouth as if testing the words before he speaks them but says nothing and he finally meets her eyes. He also smiles, and it’s honest, and it’s genuine.
Ochako reaches up, gently touching the bandage on her forehead and lifting the ice pack, a small, grateful smile playing on her lips. “Thank you for this,” she acknowledges, her voice soft with appreciation.
He nods in response, the hint of a smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I owed you one,” Izuku replies.
“This is your job,” Ochako counters.
“You know what I mean.”
Her small laughter rings through the room. “You still owe me one,” she teases gently, a playful glint in her eyes.
“Okay,” he concedes, the word hanging between them. It feels like a promise hanging in the air.